“‘All Is at Stake’ at Salamis’’
(See J. Bothwell, pp. 32-38, February 2005 Naval History)
“The Mysterious ‘Diekplous’”
(See T. Papps, pp. 35-37, February 2005 Naval History)
“The Agony of War under Oars”
(See B. Strauss, pp. 39-42, February 2005 Naval History)
Dr. Barry Strauss
As an ancient historian, I admire John Bothwell’s smart and insightful account of Salamis. But I have a different take on the lineup of the fleets, and the difference is based on my reading of the ancient sources and what they say about the ancient way of war.
Bothwell states the Persians sent the Egyptian squadron around the island of Salamis to attack the Greeks astern from the west; meanwhile, the Greek commander Themistocles sent 40 Corinthian ships to stop the Egyptians. Neither claim is correct. The source of the story is Diodorus of Sicily, a Roman-era encyclopedia writer who picked and chose from earlier histories and often got things wrong. Herodotus, who lived in the fifth century BC, is a reliable source, and he says nothing about the Egyptian move. The playwright Aeschylus, who fought in the battle, also is silent on this supposed maneuvering.
Besides, it would have been risky as well as unnecessary to send the Egyptians around the island at night. The smarter move was to send the Persian fleet into the Salamis channel itself, hugging the Athenian shore, which was in Persian hands. And this is what Xerxes did. The two fleets lined up parallel to the two shores rather than perpendicular to them, as Diodorus wrongly says. It was standard operating procedure in ancient war at sea to have a friendly shore in one’s rear if possible; otherwise, enemy soldiers would be waiting to kill the survivors who swam ashore. Neither side would have risked bringing its right wing near the enemy’s shore.
William Deeble
The authors of these articles on trireme warfare base their descriptions on thorough research of classical sources. All might benefit from extending their studies to include observations of modern racing shells, which, though much smaller, behave in the water similarly to their ancient sisters.
The main point of resemblance is in altering course. A shell’s rudder is enough for any slight curves in a race, but for greater changes of heading such as in docking, the boat is pivoted by the port oars backing water and the starboard oars going ahead, or vice versa. The closeness of oar handles to backs makes taking a full stroke impossible, but with no reason to hurry, mere paddling suffices.
Similarly, a trireme’s steering oars could keep her in proper station in the line abeam of one fleet approaching another. After making contact, in the close quarters of the melee the ship would make few long runs and many sharp turns, and could even pivot in place. For these the oarsmen on the ship’s two sides frequently must have rowed in opposite directions on command. Unlike the shells, port and starboard did not hinder each other, so they could exert maximum effort. Speed here was crucial, spelling the difference between ramming and being rammed. In effect, they would perform “di” and “ek” simultaneously, in an essentially quick-turn maneuver that fits the term “diekplous” better than any impractical sequences of first rowing in and then rowing out of enemy lines.
A second point is acceleration, which both achieve by short, rapid strokes. A shell does this to attain maximum speed within the shortest possible distance from its start. The larger trireme needed only enough momentum, at a speed well below her maximum, to drive the sharp bronze point of her ram through thin wooden planking. In a battle the captain would have been looking for targets perhaps 100 or 150 feet off his bow, rather than 500 or 1,000, and would have worried about avoiding close rather than distant ram thrusts at his sides.
Finally, trireme battles, like crew races, probably were not decided because one side did something different, clever, or mysterious. The ships were enough alike for each fleet to include captured vessels in its line, and the sailors shared a common knowledge of the fundamentals of maneuvering them. An admiral could arrange his ships in any formation he wanted before closing with the enemy, but once battle was joined he would lose control. Given the almost total lack of a communication system to transmit orders during combat, any engagement would evolve rapidly into a free-for-all, with each ship on her own trying to disable as many enemies as she could. It would have been not a maritime minuet, but more like a larger, deadlier seafaring version of a modem amusement park’s bumper cars.
The victors, whether modern racers or ancient sailors, would be those whose crews who were in better condition through hard training and rowing practice (including the diekplous!) and who went into battle with the most patriotic motivation. When Themistocles spoke to the Greeks before Salamis, he did not describe detailed battle plans, but reminded them of the families and homes they were defending. He also may have said something on the order of, “No captain can go far wrong who drives his ram into the hull of an enemy!”
“Book Reviews: A Question of Loyalty”
(See T. Wildenberg, p. 60, February 2005 Naval History)
Dr. Roger G. Miller, Historian, Office of Air Force History
Tom Wildenberg is a friend and I have tremendous respect for him as a historian and scholar. His evaluation of Douglas Waller’s biography of Billy Mitchell is excellent; he has done it justice. Tom did err, however, when he took the subtitle of the book to task for referring to Mitchell as a “general.” That title is accurate. Colonel, as Tom correctly points out, was Mitchell’s permanent rank when he resigned from the U.S. Army in 1925, but Mitchell had served as a temporary brigadier general twice. He held the rank first during World War I and then again as Assistant Chief of the Air Service following the war.
In 1930, however, Congress passed a law authorizing all personnel who had served honorably during wartime to “bear the official title and upon occasions of ceremony to wear the uniform of the highest grade held by them during their war service.” Thus, it is quite proper to address the airman as “Gen. Billy Mitchell.”
From Our Archive
Several young ladies of Sydney, Australia, enjoy a dance with U.S. sailors during the Great White Fleet’s circumnavigation of the globe in 1907-09. This and other photos are available as prints through the Naval Institute Photo Archive. You may place orders or leave messages 24 hours a day at 1-800-233-8764, or contact [email protected], or visit www.navalinstitute.org.
“Historic Fleets: USS Kearsarge (BB-5)”
(See A. D. Baker, pp. 12, 15, August 2004; L. Chirillo, pp. 10, 16, H. Raper, p. 16, December 2004; R. Miller, p. 6, February 2005 Naval History)
Elliott Stoffregen III
With regard to the “Historic Fleets” about the Kearsarge (BB-5), the reference to her having “assisted in the salvage of the . . . Squalus (SS-192)” appears to be one of those annoyingly persistent naval legends that continues to pop up despite ample evidence to the contrary. I suspect this instance, like many others in print and on the Internet, is a reflection of the misleading information in the Dictionary of American Naval Fighting Ships’ entry on the Kearsarge. In the Naval Historical Center’s Mud, Muscle, and Miracles (Washington, DC: GPO, 1990), by Captain Charles A. Bartholomew, and the Naval Institute’s own Back from the Deep (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1994), by Carl LaVO, you will not find a single reference to the crane ship participating in the Squalus’s salvage. The Web site www.onr.navy.mil/focus/blowballast/squalus/re- covery2.htm also does not mention the crane ship, and I have yet to find a photograph of her participating in the recovery. It is time this gremlin was sent to Davy Jones’s locker permanently.
“The Emperor’s Confederate Ironclad”
(See W. Hawkins, pp. 57-60, December 2004 Naval History)
Eugene B. Canfield
This article about the armored CSS Stonewall and her history after she was sold to Japan was quite interesting; it is a part of history not often studied. The major ordnance on the Stonewall was a 300-pounder 10-inch Armstrong muzzle-loading rifle in the bow casemate, and two 70-pounder 6.4-inch Armstrong muzzle-loading rifles in the aft fixed turret. Apparently, the original intent was to have the bow gun in a fixed turret rather than the casemate.
The Stonewall arrived at the Washington Navy Yard on 25 November 1865 and was sold to the Japanese government on 5 August 1867. In June 1866, she was photographed anchored off the navy yard in the Anacostia River. The building in the left foreground above is John Dahlgren’s experimental battery where various guns under evaluation were fired down the river. Unlike many ships of the Civil War era, the Stonewall in profile appears rather awkward and ungainly.
“Pearl Harbor: A Midget Sub in the Picture?”
(See A. Biache, P. Hsu, C. Lucas, and J. Rodgaard, pp. 18-22, December 2004 Naval History)
Commander Alan D. Zimm, U.S. Navy (Retired); David Dickson; Keith Allen; Bill Jurens; Anthony Lovell; Stephen McLaughlin; Gorka L. Martinez Mezo; Nathan Okun; Lieutenant Colonel James C. O’Neil, U.S. Army (Retired); Jonathan Parshall; Richard Worth; Captain Chris Carlson, U.S. Naval Reserve
This article contends that three “proportionally spaced splashes” in the photograph were “rooster tails” generated when a midget submarine lost depth control and its propellers broke the surface. If this is the case, then plume “A,” furthest to the left in the photograph, would have been initiated first; the middle plume “B” was initiated next; and the rightmost plume, “C,” last. By extrapolating from measurements provided in the article, the distance from A to C is about 100 feet, and B to C about 50 feet. The height of C is about 50 feet, B about 25 feet, and A about 10 to 15 feet. These measurements are not precise, and are subject to the inaccuracies inherent in using the published photograph, dividers, and measurements mentioned in the article. Using this information, we can gain some ideas on the speed of the object that caused these events.
First, consider the authors’ contention that a midget submarine caused these disturbances. In shallow water in a constrained harbor while lining up for an attack, a midget sub would operate at bare steerageway, or two to four knots. A submarine traveling at three knots would cover the 100 feet between A and C in about 20 seconds. Since plume A appears to have not yet totally collapsed, then the water in the plume must have gone up for about ten seconds, and fallen back for just short of ten seconds. Using the equation Distance = .5 (Acceleration of Gravity) (Time)2, that would make the required height of the plume on the order of 1,600 feet tall, or about 32 times as tall as the tallest plume shown on the photograph. This calculation makes questionable the idea these plumes were made by a broaching midget submarine at operating speed.
An estimate of the speed of the object can be had by looking at the heights of plumes B and C. If we assume C has reached near its peak height at 50 feet, and B also reached a peak of 50 feet and has fallen back down to 25 feet, the distance B has fallen (25 feet) provides an estimate of the time between A and B. Using the same formula, this time difference is 1.25 seconds. This estimates that the object creating the plumes was moving at about 40 feet per second, or about 25 knots. The maximum submerged speed of a Japanese midget submarine was 19 knots.
We tried calculations using different assumptions, and generally they indicated the presumed object was moving faster than 25 knots. For example, if the peak height of B was smaller than C (as is possible, considering the relative size of their bases), then B has fallen back less, making the time between the B and C less, and thus the speed of the object would be greater than 25 knots.
Doubling the speed of the submarine to six knots would require plume A to be in the air for more than ten seconds, requiring a 400-foot plume. A 50-foot plume would go up and collapse in about 3.5 seconds, requiring a submarine speed of more than 28 knots. Thus, the photographic evidence does not appear to support the idea these plumes were made by a submarine— indeed, it appears to rule it out.
The article’s authors developed a very convoluted argument to support their thesis. Occam’s Razor would have us look to simpler explanations. From the above calculations, a more likely explanation was that the splashes were formed by a porpoising torpedo dropped by one of the attacking aircraft and in the process of accelerating to its rated speed of 41 knots.
Other evidence can be mustered to support this. First, there appear to be the marks of two recent torpedo drops on the water to the left of, and in line with, the plumes. Second, we know the Japanese had to modify their torpedoes to operate in the shallow waters of the harbor; we also know these modifications were not always successful, since some of their torpedoes malfunctioned during the live torpedo drops conducted during the air crews’ training program. In the actual attack, the Japanese dropped 36 torpedoes (four torpedo bombers were shot down before they could launch), and we can account for between 19 and 22 that hit ships and exploded, so between 14 and 17 torpedoes malfunctioned or otherwise missed their targets.
Thus, a simple explanation for any presumed plumes of water on the photograph that is consistent with the data might be an aerial torpedo with defective depth control. This type of malfunction, called “porpoising,” was common.
We say “presumed,” because it cannot be conclusively proven the marks on the photograph are plumes of water. If they are plumes, they are curious, as they cast no shadows on the water that we could see. Alternately, the marks might be shell splashes, drifting smoke, antiaircraft shell bursts, or even just imperfections on the film.
In their Discovery Channel special the authors provided a detailed look at their extensive effort to reproduce the “plumes” using a model of the midget sub. The splash generated in their test looked nothing whatsoever like the “plumes” on the photograph; this they admitted in the program. Why the authors do not consider this conclusive evidence against their thesis was not explained. Indeed, it appears a double standard exists: the sub model broaching test was considered inconclusive, but a model test of an air-dropped torpedo was offered as definitive evidence the plumes were not entry splashes from airdropped torpedoes—even when their tests and comparison photographs did not duplicate the conditions of dropping an aerial Type 91 Mod 2 Japanese torpedo.
The authors claim this midget submarine launched torpedoes against the U.S. battleships. This is key to their argument, because the launch supposedly caused the loss of trim in the submarine that, coupled with the shock waves from the detonation of the torpedoes, is what they claim caused the submarine’s propellers to broach. We would like to point out, however, that the ten torpedoes carried by the five midget submarines all are conclusively documented: Midget A’s wreck (sunk by the Ward [DD-139] before the air attack), recently found, had both torpedoes on board; Midget B (sunk by the Monaghan [DD-354] on the west side of Ford Island) launched both torpedoes, with the wakes observed by independent eyewitnesses; Midget C (washed up on Oahu outside Pearl Harbor) was captured with its torpedoes on board; Midget D wreck (found off Pearl Harbor in 1960) had both torpedoes on board; and Midget E launched both torpedoes against the cruiser St. Louis (CL-49).
The authors contend, without evidence, that the attack on the St. Louis did not occur. Instead, they argue that since all the other midget submarines either penetrated the harbor or were destroyed in the attempt, Midget E therefore must have penetrated the harbor, as they say, “in the fabled tradition of the samurai.” This is in contradiction to the eyewitness account contained in the St. Louis’s operations report, dated 10 December 1941, which states: “When just inside entrance buoy No. 1 two torpedoes were fired at this ship from a distance of approximately 2,000 yards on the starboard beam. The torpedoes, although running shallow, struck the shoal inside buoy No. 1 and exploded, no damage to this vessel resulting.”
Could a submarine other than the Midget E have fired these torpedoes? The Japanese had stationed 22 submarines in the Hawaiian Islands area. Two, the 1-/6 and I-20, were stationed near entrance to the harbor where the attack occurred; three more, the 1-24, 1-22, and 1-18, were stationed about 15 nautical miles from the entrance. According to their logs, none of these submarines made any attacks or expended any torpedoes that day.
Thus, we believe the theory of a midget submarine attack in Pearl Harbor is not supported by either the historical records or the photograph in question.
“All Signs Pointed to Pearl Harbor”
(See E. Canfield, pp. 42-46, December 2004 Naval History)
Michael Gannon
Historians and other writers on Pearl Harbor have turned the Martin-Bellinger joint estimate of .31 March (not August) 1941 into an urban legend, ascribing to it statements that the estimate never made. Gordon Prange wrote that the estimate warned that a Japanese air attack on Oahu would come from the “north” or “north; west,” Paolo Coletta wrote the “south,” and Michael Slackman wrote the “north.” But the estimate says none of these things, either geographically, nautically, or numerically. Norman Polmar wrote that the estimate recommended “limited air searches to [the] most likely direction of attack.” But Martin-Bellinger does not say anything about a most likely direction.
Now Eugene Canfield states that the estimate warned that Japanese aircraft carriers “would cross the Pacific in the northern areas away from shipping lanes.” I searched in vain for any statement remotely resembling that in the document.
My request is, will someone please read the Martin-Bellinger estimate. In its typewritten form it is only six and a half pages.
Battleship South Dakota (BB-57)
Merrill D. Martin
I want to set the record straight. Signing the agreement that ended the war with Japan in September 1945 on the battleship Missouri (BB-63) was a slap in the face to all fighting men in the war, and especially to the South Dakota (BB-57), the most fighting ship of the war and Admiral Chester Nimitz’s flagship.
“Up Front with the Troops”
(See B. Greeley, pp. 32-41, December 2004 Naval History)
Frank Simon
I thoroughly enjoyed this article. David Douglas Duncan’s photographs were excellent, and Lieutenant Colonel Greeley’s text provided an informative commentary. There is one slight error, however, in the discussion of the Irgun’s operations in Israel. The article describes the Irgun’s “attempt to rob the Ottoman Bank in Jaffa [Haifa].” I do not know where the bank was, but Jaffa and Haifa are not the same place. Haifa is a Mediterranean port in northern Israel below Mount Hermon. Jaffa is a port town south of Tel Aviv.
“An Escape from Spain by Sea”
(See P. Heine, pp. 28-31, October 2004 Naval History)
Captain Robert A. Moss, U.S. Coast Guard (Retired)
This article caught my attention because at the same time the USS Oklahoma (BB- 37) was evacuating the author and his family from Spain, the USCGC Cayuga was evacuating Americans and others from the same Spanish Civil War peril.
In the Henriques Room in Hamilton Hall at the Coast Guard Academy there hangs a mural depicting the historic event, and in the 1937 edition of Tide Rips (the Academy’s yearbook) there are several photographs and a description of the incident. The cadets of the class of 1937, who were on their summer cruise on board the Cayuga, had to be removed from the ship to make room for the refugees. The cadets were transferred to the USS Wyoming (AG- 17) (which was steaming in company with the Oklahoma and Arkansas [BB-33]) and eventually returned to the United States in the Wyoming along with the Navy midshipmen.
“City of Pueblo Seeks Namesake’s Return”
(See “Naval History News," pp. 62-64, December 2004 Naval History)
Rod Speer
Curious to read in this news piece that the city of Pueblo wants the eponymous ship returned. And just how are they expecting to receive the ship? Certainly not by the Arkansas River. The Pueblo (AGER-2) has a nine-foot draft; I know a man from Kansas who has forded the river, so it is quite shallow. The ship would have to be cut in little pieces and transported overland. I work in the Naval Sea Systems Command office that would take responsibility for the Pueblo if she ever were returned to the United States. We do donate vessels for museums. I was involved in trying to donate a tugboat to its namesake city up the Des Moines River in Iowa— and that was undoable by river.
“Trapped in a Typhoon”
(See E. Jackson, pp. 50-54, December 2004 Naval History)
Douglas Champion
I am afraid you have my Web site wrong on the credit for my painting, which appears as the opener for the article. It should read www3.sympatico.ca/locsound/champart. I also can be reached through the Marine Art Information Centre (click on galleries, then on Canada).